Falling from Heaven’s grace
TW: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH
I’ve hidden the text bc the entire thing is pretty heavy. Read on if you’d like a nice chunk of angst that was supposed to turn into a full novel but got abandoned in my WIPs folder.
Catra dies watching the anguish on Adora’s face as she realizes she can’t save her.
As the sword clatters to the ground beside her and she takes off after Catra, shouting something that Catra can’t hear through the ringing in her ears, though she can read the words off of Adora’s lips: Catra.
She loses sight of Adora in the thick and heavy smoke of the explosion. She presses a hand against her neck, feeling blood seep between her fingers with every inhale, the slippery warmth of blood against skin. Her breathing, fast and heavy; mind spinning in a dizzying procession. Even more blood spilling over her lips onto her clothes. She’s getting tunnel vision, still desperately searching for Adora through the smokey air despite the harsh stinging in her eyes.
Adora bursts from the hazy air, ponytail askew, dirt and sweat trailing down her face as her head whips back and forth in search of Catra. Her gaze crashes into Catra. Catra sees the fear on Adora’s face as she takes in Catra’s condition. Back when they were still junior cadets in the Fright Zone they’d been taught that once a pool of blood reached a certain size there was no stopping the inevitable. Catra takes Adora’s expression as such, lets her hand fall from her neck and gives a weak chuckle of relief.
“Hey, Adora,” she wheezes, “Finally come around to watch me die?”
Adora staggers over, crashing to her knees beside her. Her hands fly up to Catra’s face, one firmly pressing onto the gash, the other brushing aside Catra’s hair in the gentlest gesture Catra’s seen since they split. “Not yet,” Adora breathes. “You’re not done yet.”
Catra lets out a whispery laugh, grunting when a surge of pain shoots up her side. “Always so optimistic, Adora,” she sighs, faintly shaking her head.
“You’re not done yet. Hang on, I can fix this.” Adora’s voice rises on a note of hysteria. Catra gives her a crooked, knowing smile. She’s always been rather apt at reading Adora.
“You can barely keep the Horde from invading Brightmoon, what makes you think you can save me?” she asks, coughing. More blood spills over Adora’s fingers. Catra’s lost far too much blood— the ground is damp with it, the air carries the sharp metallic scent of it, Adora’s hands come away red with it.
“Can you work with me for once?” Adora hisses quietly, tearing off a section of her red jacket and pressing it to Catra’s neck. Her eyes flick skittishly back and forth between Catra’s face and her neck.
“Idiot,” Catra mumbles, though the words come out slurred as her lips slide thickly over each other.
“Hang on—I—I can heal you with She-Ra.” Adora closes her eyes and scrunches up her face in concentration.
Catra laughs. She can’t help herself. It’s too silly of an expression, too Adora-esque and nothing like the princess she’d been fighting for the past three years. And both of them know it’s a hopeless attempt— Adora’s sword lies abandoned fifty yards away.
Adora’s eyes snap open. “Stop it,” she flusters, before closing her eyes again. For once, Catra listens, shutting her mouth. There’s no more time for scathing insults and harsh arguments; they’ve wasted too much time on fighting, on digging out the worst parts of each other, and not nearly enough time on appreciating what they had.
“You look beautiful, Adora,” Catra slurrs, eyelids fluttering lower and lower, gaze focused on something in the far distance. She’s delirious at this point. Half the words she says aren’t hers—at least, as far as she can tell. The corner of Adora’s mouth twitches, but otherwise she doesn’t react.
“Come on,” Adora mutters to herself, “Come on!”
A flicker. Adora starts to glow a bright yellow, hazy images of the bigger She-Ra flitting between the space between them. Warmth starts to flood through Adora’s body, filling every crack and crevice. For a second Adora’s breath hitches. She starts to smile, letting out a relieved sigh of laughter.
And then the glow fades.
“Wh—no, no! No!”
Catra’s distant gaze refocuses onto Adora with a sudden clarity. They’re filled with pride and a tenderness that Adora hasn’t seen in years, is almost unfamiliar in the absence of cold fury and calculation. “’m sorry Adora. ‘s not your fault,” Catra murmurs weakly. Her hand comes up to gently caress Adora’s cheek. Adora catches it, presses it against her head, pleading. But Catra’s hand slackens; her eyes become vacant; she gives one last, shuddering breath, and goes terrifyingly still.
The last thing she hears is Adora, tearfully begging her to stay. But death beckons with an emphatic hand, and so she has no other choice but to go.
B for the fanfic ask?
B. Have I ever written based on personal experience:
Well I’m not a catgirl, nor have I survived a zombie apocalypse, but I have infused a little personal experience into “What You’re Worth”.
Since Catra never had a healthy friendship with Scorpia in the canon, I somewhat unconsciously based their “What You’re Worth” relationship on me and one of my friends. She’s a lot like a nicer Catra and I’m like Scorpia, so I think our friendship translates pretty well to healthy platonic Scorptra.
The issue with this is that, especially with Scorpia, i sometimes lean more on my personal experience than the canon. I think WYW Scorpia is probably more like me than she is like canon Scorpia and that really bothers me sometimes.
This means Scorpia is slightly sharper than she is in the canon. I am nice, but I’m very direct too and I’m not gonna hold back on an opinion. No one has ever commented on this but I complain about it a lot. It’s probably not that noticeable, tbh. Just one of those things the author sees and the audience doesn’t. I should give myself a break.
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